


The Proper Way to Hate a Man

by SoniaVice



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoniaVice/pseuds/SoniaVice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last night in Pittsburgh, Claude Giroux played various games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proper Way to Hate a Man

**Author's Note:**

> This might be a weird way to say thank you to Pittsburgh for their kindness, but it's what I feel.
> 
> Contains: misogynistic language
> 
> off-hand threats of violence

Claude's on his phone. He's not supposed to be on his phone, not supposed to be hiding in an empty hallway in Pittsburgh too close to hitting the ice for warmup, not even in his gear yet and on his fucking phone. But. He is.

He hears footsteps, rapid and quiet so he looks up, busted, caught in the act and it's—of course, right?—fucking Crosby. 

Maybe this isn't some service hallway—painted grey concrete smelling of chlorine as if there's a pool somewhere behind one of the metal doors. Maybe this is Crosby's secret passageway. Maybe this is how he gets around without having to see any of the little people. Like he's the fucking King or something. Princess, Claude thinks and curls his lip a little more. There should be rose petals on the floor.

Crosby rolls his eyes and walks right up inside Claude's reach. Claude can smell him, product or aftershave or something. He's got his hair all neat and short, face shaved bare as a baby's ass. He looks like a fucking kid. Crosby sighs hard enough that his nose whistles. Rink rat who can't breathe right anymore. 

"Fuck off," Claude says. 

Crosby rolls his fucking eyes again. So Claude shoves him, not hard, just enough to make his eyes go dark and wide. His whistley little nose flares. He's so easy for it. Claude does it again, and Crosby shoves back, both hands, harder. Hard enough to bounce Claude lightly off the wall. 

Now he's the one getting hot. Blood roaring in his ears. He wants to fucking wipe that smug little grin off his face, find whatever the fuck is under it. His fist closes tight around his phone just as it vibrates. He stops staring at Crosby for a second and when he glances back the grin is gone. The game face is back.

"Go do your job, asshole," Crosby says and stalks off. Princess. 

He turns his phone off. Shoves it in his pocket, adjusts himself while he's there. Goes and does his job.

It's too much, too much. The singing, the lights. He's not where he needs to be. Fuck. He keeps his head down, tries to block it out, but he can see movement, everybody bouncing from foot to foot, fidgeting. It's not pumping him up, it's—he looks up and sees him watching. Face red, cherry red. Him. If he could, he'd go over there and—his fist closes tight. Tight enough to make his wrist twinge so he shakes it out. 

Crosby's still looking, head up, eyes invisible in the weird light but his blood red lips curl into a mocking smile, and Claude wants to fucking split him open, smash his teeth out, make him bleed. Make him fucking remember who Claude is. Why they're here.

And then he's taking the faceoff right across from him, and he gets his head in it. All the way.

It's loud and fast, shoving and pushing, and fucking Crosby fucking whining about some fucking thing. He's got the puck when the whole place boos him like he's their personal devil, which he fucking is. He is their worst nightmare. "That's it," he says. Louder. "That's it." What he needs. He's bashing his way to the net, wants a goal so bad, but you don't always get what you want. 

He's got his boys though. And they fuck them hard. Jesus, this game. The crowd so fucking loud, hating him so fucking hard. Hating all of them.

What a way to get a win. 

His head is pounding after. Eyes itchy, and he needs about a gallon of water. He stays in the shower too long, like the water will just seep into his skin. 

He's expected to relive it for the press, bleed everything out of it that was hot and sweet and alive and make it dry and cold and flat enough for paper. It's like being asked to describe your last really good fuck, and you can't, can you? You don't know where the fuck your hand was every second, what you did with your mouth, what you said, what you heard. 

"How did you feel..." 

Every fucking question starts with that. How the hell does he know? He just feels. Like he still wants to punch someone in the face. He could tell them that. They drift away in time, when they figure he's dried right out and empty. 

He looks at his phone. Too many texts. Too much. Like a flood when he wanted a few drops. Specific drops. He closes the valve before it drowns him. 

There's a couple of guys still there. Laughing about something, almost ready to leave. "Tell them not to hold the bus for me," he says. They laugh harder. Crack jokes about his Pittsburgh bootie call. Ask him again if she's too hot to show off or too ugly. 

He gets a cab, gives the address and fidgets through the ride. He doesn't know if he's showing up where he's expected. He's tense from it, and that's fucking stupid. He gives himself a shake. He's not going begging, here. He's going hunting. 

There's lights on. Bright, illuminating the whole driveway. Glow in the front windows behind closed curtains. He pays off the cabbie and waits for him to leave. Doesn’t have to ring the bell, the door opens, more light spilling out around the dark shape in the doorway. The shape retreats and there's nothing but a rectangle of orange glow. Claude steps into it; his heart kicks up. Anticipation. Want. Fight, not flight. He shuts the door behind him. 

He's leaning against the wall wearing sloppy old clothes—a t-shirt so threadbare, Claude could rip it off him easy. Easy. He looks tired, Claude sees this in passing and ignores it. His lips are wet cherry red. 

"Are you coming in?" he asks. Sighs like Claude is too much fucking trouble. Turns his back and starts to walk away. 

What a fucking asshole. Turning his back. Like Claude is no threat, like he's safe here. Arrogant, always arrogant.

The shirt rips nice. He grinds him into the wall, face first, mouth on his skin, neck shoulder. They fucked right in the front hall once. Twice. On Claude's living room floor. On beds in hotels. A bathroom somewhere—Vegas, maybe or New York. 

So it's not a surprise when Crosby bucks him hard, and Claude goes flying, stumbling back before he's hauled back in. Cherry red lips on his mouth. Crosby's strong. He barely bothers to use it on the ice, on other people. Arrogantly, regally indifferent most of the time to that sort of thing. He's above it all, right? The prick. Too busy with his brain, his hands, his feet. His damn mouth. 

He's got Claude's tie wrapped around his hand and Claude is up against the wall now, taking the tongue in his mouth with no complaint. And he knows where the hell his hands are because they've got a good grip on that ass. 

He goes up the stairs. Following. He almost said no, because he's never done that. It's too far in. Too intentional. He hovers in the doorway looking at the big bed. This is all wrong. Too much. Or not enough. Not enough hot blood. 

Crosby flops back on the bed like a sullen kid. Throws his arm over his eyes. Dramatic. He slides his hand into his sweats and just casually gets his dick out and starts working it. "Take that ugly suit off," he says, like he's bored. 

Cherry red. 

"You're such a—" Claude says, but he doing it, isn't he? Stripping off and moving to the bed and he sees a bruise on Crosby's thigh, so he knees into it, hears him grunt, and Claude's grinning when he grabs Crosby's arm and flings it off his face. Goes over easy when Crosby flips him and presses down, hands hard on his biceps. Never his wrists. 

It's better if they don't talk. 

So they take instead of ask. Fight for it. They both got off just from the fight the first time. Got off hard. Not just the first time.

Claude grunts and pushes Crosby off. It takes a couple of tries because he's tired too. Crosby still has his pants half on so Claude gets a fistful of the fabric and pulls hard, pinning him down with his other arm, locking his thighs together. He could bust out of this easy. Those fucking thighs. 

It's too sweet to see him like this so Claude gives him a reason not to escape. Cherry red, hot with blood, he swallows him down and lets his teeth scrape, just a touch, and Crosby grunts and curses and pulls too fucking hard on his hair. 

He'd tried to teach him not to do that once, by pulling off his dick and holding him down and kissing him until he was crying for it, begging for something on his dick. Lesson hadn't stuck.

He doesn't fuck around. Just sucks him hard and fast until he comes, pulling off just in time, letting Crosby's legs loose so he can jack him hard with his hand, make him whine for real. He cleans his hand off on Crosby's skin when he's done.

There is no one less mellow after he gets off than Crosby. It's weird. Like a guy who can't sleep without a coffee or gets jittery on NyQuil. He's wired up all wrong. 

He's got Claude on his back, tongue in his mouth because he fucking loves that, Claude knows, kissing him until he can't breathe, until he feels empty after. Crosby's jacking him slowly enough to make him growl, hand twisting at the end, fingers brushing against his balls. 

Claude tries to yank on his hair, but it's too short for much fun. He tugs on a bit at the back, telling him to let it grow. He might. He's done it before. Claude's humping up into his hand, shamelessly horny. And it's good, he comes, it's nice, but it wasn't really rough enough. He should have made Crosby fuck him, but he's beat, legs too weak for it. 

He almost falls asleep. It's quiet. Crosby didn't do anything but roll over and stay where he landed, legs half over the edge of the bed. He can hear a fan whirring, Crosby's fucking nose whistling a little. 

"That wasn't very good," Crosby says, and Claude grunts, coming out of his doze. 

This is new. They don't fucking break down the play after. Usually he just leaves. Or Crosby does. Except the one time he was a bit drunk and they woke up in the same hotel bed. Fucked in the shower so it didn't seem awkward.

"Too tired to fuck," Claude says. Merciful. Letting him off the hook. "Unless you meant the game, because you weren't. Good." 

"Nasty fucking mouth. Should bust out the rest of your teeth," Crosby says, weirdly without heat.

"Like you'd bother to do that yourself. You have people for that, right?"

Crosby makes this humming noise, like he's picturing that. Maybe it's what he jerks off to, who the fuck knows. 

"Stay," he says, like it's an order. Like Claude is his bitch who does as he's told. Like he's entitled to push him around. Like he's the—"And I'll suck you off." He waggles his fingers in the air, telling Claude what else he'll do while his mouth is busy. Cherry red lips stretched around his cock. Claude has jerked off to that. Who wouldn't?

"We left the door unlocked," Claude says, because Crosby looks like he's planning on sleeping where he is until they can get it up for round two—covered in come and pants hanging off one ankle.

"I think we're safe enough," he says dryly. Arrogantly sure. Like always.


End file.
